


One Man's Noise

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, International Fanworks Day 2015, Lewis Roulette, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie tilts his head and listens to the song. “Happy,” he says. Then for the next song, he says, “Love.” </p><p>James changes the channel on the radio again and gets an old-school, punk rock anthem. </p><p>Robbie listens, then says, “Angry noise.” </p><p>James grips the steering wheel to remind himself to watch the road and not Robbie’s face. Says, “Do you do that with all music?” </p><p>“Do what?” </p><p>“Classify it with one word before you’ve heard more than a few notes.” </p><p>“‘Angry noise’ is two words,” Robbie points out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Man's Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Much appreciation to wendymr for the last minute beta, Britpicking, and reassurance. I learn so much every time you make a comment or correction! Thank you. 
> 
> Of course, I've fiddled with it since, so mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Written for the Lewis Roulette Valentine Challenge 2015 at lewis_challenge for the song prompts  
>  _[Pour Some Sugar On Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UIB9Y4OFPs),_ by Def Leppard,  &  
>  _[There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QccPUSTMriM),_ by Kirsty MacColl

  


* * *

  
“How about some music?” James holds the steering wheel with one hand and waits, fingers poised over the radio, for Robbie’s answer. 

“I’ll do it.” Robbie, who’s only just relaxed back in the passenger seat, head lolled as if he’s beginning to zone on the blur of green sliding past the window, stirs. “You just keep your attention on the road,” he orders as he shifts to sit forward.

James obediently puts his hand back on the steering wheel. 

They’d had a near miss, an hour or so back, when a lorry pulled out of a side road in front of them. James had avoided the collision with strategic driving and too much squealing of tires, while Robbie clutched the dash and swore under his breath as inventively, as vividly, as the proverbial sailor. In all the years he’s known him, James had never heard some of those words come out of Robbie’s mouth. It had made James’s ears turn pink and his skin feel a bit shivery. 

And he’s still trying not wriggle in the seat as he imagines some of those words coming out of Robbie’s mouth in an entirely different setting. It’s a line of thinking that’s never a good place for him to venture, but his thoughts keep straying. Hence the request for music, for _anything_ , to occupy his mind. 

Robbie leans forward and taps the button to turn the radio on, then drops back into his sprawl. 

And they’re rewarded with a blast of punk rock from the speakers. James supposes he has Robbie to thank for the volume, since he was the last to use the car. 

Robbie, who does tend to crank his Wagner up at times, apparently doesn’t appreciate Staind at same level. “Well, that’s a lot of noise!” he growls as he surges forward to change the station. 

“No, wait,” James says. Because he knows this song. It doesn’t have the power over him that it once did, to make him maudlin and sad and filled with anger at himself, but it still touches him. And it bothers him that Robbie hears only clatter and discordance. 

He intercepts Robbie’s hand just before his fingers touch the programme buttons and gently pushes it away. “One man’s noise is another man’s music,” he says lightly. 

“That’s not music, James. That’s noise.” 

“That’s alternative metal, Robbie, and it sounds the way it does for a reason. It’s a descendant of punk rock. And punk is as much about counterculture for my generation as Midnight Addiction was for your generation, back in the age of dinosaurs.” 

“Oi!” Robbie protests. “I know what punk is. But it’s still a lot of noise.” 

Careful to keep his eyes on the road, James adjusts the volume down a bit. His hand hovers over the radio controls until he’s sure Robbie’s not going to overrule him and change the channel. 

As the song swings from harsh to soft, from heavy guitar chords to lyrics— _‘How could you paint this picture? Was life as bad as it should seem?’_ —Robbie tilts his head. “Oh,” he says, voice very soft and filled with understanding. “It’s about suicide.” 

James fingers tighten on the wheel. A wash of emotions—sadness, pain, defensiveness, resistance—floods through him. And a twinge of surprise. He hadn’t expected Robbie to understand quite so well or to put it so succinctly. Especially on the basis of only a few words. 

“How did you get that?” he asks. “Just from a couple of lines? Do you know this song?” 

Robbie shrugs. “It just...sounded like it.” He peeks at James out of the corners of his eyes. “Music creates...” He searches for the words. Says finally, “ _feelings_ ,” in a tone that says he feels the word is inadequate. “You know, it makes you happy. Makes you sad. Gets you riled up.” 

“Music evokes emotion,” James agrees. 

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s what I was trying to say.” Robbie nods. 

And James can’t resist. As soon as the next song, an early Green Day tune, starts, he asks, “What do you get from this one?” 

Robbie says promptly, “More noise.” But then he listens to the first few lines and says, “It’s a love song.” 

James grins, delighted, because he’s not much of a punk fan, despite defending it, but he knows that song, and it is a love song. 

He touches one of the programme buttons on the radio and finds Goldfrapp. Now _that_ is noise. There are no lyrics at this point, but James doubts there’s anybody left on the planet who doesn’t know at least the chorus of this one. 

Robbie, who’s turned nearly the same shade of pink as when the lorry pulled out in front of them, says, “Rumpy pumpy.” 

It’s all James can do not to laugh aloud. He touches another programme button. Gets an old-school, punk rock anthem. It always makes him think of Shakespeare. Sound and fury. 

Robbie says, without waiting for lyrics, “Angry noise.” 

James grips the steering wheel to remind himself to watch the road and not Robbie’s face. Says, “Do you do that with all music?” 

“Do what?” 

“Classify it with one word before you’ve heard more than a few notes.” 

“‘Angry noise’ is two words,” Robbie points out. 

James gives up and laughs out loud. And is pleased to see answering amusement in Robbie’s expression. 

“So do you?” 

“What?” 

James is sure Robbie’s being deliberately obtuse. He persists, patiently. “Do you classify all music within a few seconds of hearing it by your emotional response?” 

“Well, I don’t sit around doing it off the top of me head.” Robbie sounds a bit defensive. 

“I’m not being a smartarse,” James assures him. “I think it’s interesting.” 

Mollified, Robbie scrunches up his face and thinks. “I suppose...it’s something I got in the habit of doing when Lyn and Mark were babies. Val asked me to not play some things when the kids were awake. I didn’t think they were old enough to understand, you know, the words and all. But she’d read this study, about the effects of music on young minds or some such. About how they don’t have to understand the words for it to have an effect on them. And I noticed that our Lyn slept better when we played certain kinds of music. 

“And then once kids are old enough to understand the lyrics...well, then you’ve got to be careful what you let them hear, else you’ll get it played back to you when you’re standing in a queue. Val always swore Mark waited until there was a vicar nearby to say some rude word he’d picked up.”

Robbie yawns and stretches his arms out in front of him. “So, yeah, I suppose I got pretty good at predicting where a song’s lyrics were headed, or what kind of mood a song’s going to...what was that word you used?” 

“Evoke.” 

“Yeah, evoke.” 

James changes the radio channel again and glances at Robbie as classical violin music pours from the speakers. When Robbie doesn’t say anything right away, James raises his eyebrows. 

“You’re not gonna do this to me the whole way, are you?” Robbie complains, pointing imperiously for James to keep his gaze on the road. 

“Just one more,” James begs. “And I’ll turn the radio off and you can nap.” 

“I’m not your old granddad, needing a siesta,” Robbie grumbles, but he nods and reaches out to change the channel himself this time. 

And finds an ad for Dolmio lasagne. 

“Hunger,” Robbie says, without prompting, and clicks the radio off.

“That’s cheating. That wasn’t a song, and a food ad evokes hunger in everybody. That’s the point.” 

Robbie grins. “Well, it worked. Next place you see, let’s have a bite.” And he rests his head back on the seat and closes his eyes. 

*****

On the way back to Oxford, recalcitrant witness in the back seat, James turns on the radio and starts the game again. 

The first music he finds is Listz’s _Danse Macabre._

“Scary,” Robbie says promptly. “I definitely wouldn’t have played that one with the kids in the house.” He’s turned a bit sideways in his seat so he can keep an eye on the young man in the back. 

Their passenger is a witness, not a suspect, and he’s only agreed to be transported to Oxford to give evidence in a robbery case because his father has threatened to disown him if he doesn’t. He’s already informed them that the car smells, he hates Oxford, and though he didn’t say it, James suspects the guy’s not too fond of coppers either. He’s sitting scrunched in on himself in the corner, scowling off to the side. 

James pushes the ‘scan’ button on the radio so that it’ll move from station to station, playing a few seconds of whatever’s on, until he pushes it again. 

First up is the jaunty opening intro of Nazareth’s _Hair of the Dog._

Robbie nods, obviously liking the song. “Pain,” he says. “Like from a hangover. Though that’s not exactly accurate. The band intended it to be ‘heir, _h-e-i-r_ , of the dog, not hair. You know, a play on ‘son of a bitch’, but their record label wouldn’t approve it.” 

James laughs, delighted. 

The radio scans to The Beach Boys. 

Robbie says, “Summer.” 

James is enjoying himself so much he doesn’t bother to point out that ‘summer’ isn’t an emotion. Or maybe it is, in Robbie-speak. 

The radio scans on, and as each song plays, Robbie says, 

“Love.” 

“Sadness.” 

“Innocence.” 

“Love.” 

“Dancing, so...happy.” 

“Love again.” 

“Hey,” their passenger complains. “Are we gonna only listen to ten seconds of every song? Can I hear one all the way through?”

“Pipe down, you,” Robbie warns, the lightness gone from his voice. “You won’t hear anything at all if I decide to put you in the boot.” 

“You can’t do that!” the guy protests. “I know—”

Robbie stretches up a bit, suddenly looking like a much bigger man than he is, his shoulders taking up more space in the car than they should possibly be able to. 

It’s a really impressive skill for a copper to have, and James has tried but he’s never come anywhere near duplicating it. Seeing Robbie do it never fails to make James shiver. 

Robbie scowls and says, “Your word against ours,” and the man snaps his mouth shut. 

Robbie’s threat, though, is ruined by the way he grins openly as he settles back, resuming his normal demeanour. 

“A lot of songs are about love,” James observes. “Or you seem to think so.” 

Robbie shrugs. “I went out with an American girl, back in the dinosaur age,” he says dryly, “before I met Val. And she told me all country music songs were about either ‘dying, breaking up, or waiting for a train’. For the longest, when I’d hear a country song, I’d try to figure out where it fit.” 

“Well, now I will, too.” 

“I don’t think it applies so much now. Country music has gone all pop and modern. Or so I’ve heard. I don’t listen to it much.” Robbie tilts his head as Jack White’s _Love Interruption_ starts. “I don’t know this one,” he says. 

James reaches over and pushes the scan button so the song can play through. 

Robbie’s eyebrows go up at the lyrics. 

_‘I want love to, roll me over slowly_  
 _Stick a knife inside me, and twist it all around._  
 _I want love to, grab my fingers gently_  
 _Slam them in a doorway, put my face into the ground.’_

“That’s a hell of a love song,” Robbie observes, smiling. 

“I think it’s about—”

“Breaking up,” Robbie says, and his mouth turns down. 

“Yeah.” James wants to pursue it, because it’s sort of an opening, and because all Robbie’s ever said about him and Laura splitting up is ‘We didn’t want the same things’. But it’s not his business. Though Robbie and Laura have been very kind to each other since, James is sure there has to be pain and regret there, especially if Robbie sees ‘breaking up’ in just those few lines. 

No matter how much he wants to ask, James can’t, because he’s already told Robbie he’s there if he needs to talk, and Robbie hasn’t taken him up on it. And even if Robbie does want to talk, he wouldn’t with a stranger just an arm’s length away. So James just reaches over and changes the station instead. 

The sound of Tom Petty’s voice fills the car. 

“Narcissism.” Robbie says, smiling, equilibrium restored. 

Their passenger sighs. 

*****

For the next couple of weeks, James keeps up the game. 

He’s having such a good time with it that he starts looking for songs, downloading things onto his music player, just to see what Robbie will say. 

Sometimes, Robbie rolls his eyes and gives facetious answers. Sometimes, he just shakes his head and refuses to play. But mostly, he indulges James. Occasionally, he instigates the game himself, pausing as a car passes by to categorize the music trailing from the open windows. Or snagging one of James’s earbuds to give an opinion on what James has cued up on his music player before he’s even asked. 

James learns that, despite his studied Geordie patter, Robbie has a very varied vocabulary where music is concerned...

“Ponderous.” This for a heavy piece of classical music. 

“Stimulating,” for a song from a film soundtrack. 

“Horrifying.” “Disgruntled.” “Optimistic.” “Jealousy.” “Enthusiasm.” “Deception.”

James learns that _Every Breath You Take_ is ‘sort of’ a love song but more about obsession. That _all_ Beach Boys songs are about summer, even the ones about cars. And that, every time, Robbie turns a lovely shade of pink when he realises that a song’s lyrics are about ‘rumpy pumpy’. 

Like now, when James has clicked the next button on his player, shifting from Vivaldi—“Yearning”—to Def Leppard’s _Pour Some Sugar On Me._

It’s become as much of a game to surprise Robbie with transitions as to find out what he thinks of a particular piece of music. 

James is expecting that appealing pink blush that blooms like roses opening on Robbie’s cheeks and, instead, gets a darker flush that creeps up from under his collar. 

“Sexy,” Robbie says. 

And that’s a description James hasn’t heard Robbie use before. Especially not in that husky tone of voice. James is so surprised, so intrigued, he stops. But Robbie keeps going, and the sudden tension on the wire that’s strung between them pops his earbud out. And when he throws his hand out to catch it, he drops the player. 

Robbie stops. And does James imagine it, or is it just wishful thinking, that as Robbie turns back to him, Robbie’s gaze slides over him, lingers on his mouth? That he turns away quickly, ducking his head as he flushes darker? 

James is so flustered, he blurts, “Not ‘rumpy pumpy’?” 

And that seems to snap Robbie out of...whatever it was he was in. “Yeah,” he says, ruefully. “There’s that, too.” And he leans down, scoops up the music player and resumes walking, holding the wire out in front of him to untangle it as he moves away. 

And then Robbie freezes again. Goes absolutely stock still. He’s holding the music player out in front of him like it’s zapped him with an electrical shock. He slowly runs his fingers along the dangling wire until he finds the other earpiece. Plugs it into his ear. 

James has to circle around him to see his face. 

Robbie’s eyes are comically round, and his face has turned wine red. Like claret in a crystal glass held up to the light. “Well, that’s just _nasty_ ,” he says, but his mouth is turning up at the corners and his blue eyes are bright with laughter. 

And the way he says ‘nasty’ makes nasty sound like a lot of fun. It’s even huskier, rougher, than ‘sexy’ was. It makes James’s breath feel hot coming out of his throat. It makes him want to be ‘nasty’. Specifically, Robbie’s brand of nasty. He wants Robbie, looming over him, naked, telling him he’s nasty in just that tone. 

And there it is again, blue eyes flicking up and down. Gaze gliding over him, pausing at his mouth. Sliding away. He's not imagining it. Is he? 

And James remembers, with a feeling like ice sliding down his spine, the website he came across in his search for music. He’d downloaded a few of the songs listed on it, just for... Just for what? He hadn’t really planned to play them for Robbie. Had he? And he stands there, racking his brain, trying to remember exactly which of those songs he put on the player. 

He reaches for the player just as Robbie turns away with it, tilting and shading the screen so he can see it in the sunshine. He works the navigation buttons with his thumb. “Is this your name for this type of music, or is that what it’s called?” he asks, walking on. 

And, oh, crap!, did he really name that folder ‘Fuck Rock’? How many glasses of wine had he put away that night? 

“It’s—” His voice comes out squeaky as a young girl’s. 

Robbie glances back at him. 

James clears his throat and takes a couple of long steps to catch up. “It’s what it’s called. I _didn’t_ make it up.” 

Robbie smiles at him. Impish. Almost flirtatious. “You learn something new every day.” He takes one of the earbuds out and offers it to him. 

James waves it away, knowing there’s no way he can walk alongside Robbie and listen to the explicit lyrics of Trent Reznor or Hoobastank or Nickelback, to the throbbing, pounding rhythm. Because all he can think of is what he’d like to be doing while that music’s cranked up and the lights are low. His ears are so hot they burn like he’s stayed out in the sun too long. And he’s so turned on, his trousers feel tight across the zip. 

Robbie shrugs, puts the earbud back in his ear, and continues on his way. 

As they turn into Christ College, James scrabbles in his pocket for his warrant card, fingers stiff and clumsy. 

Robbie unplugs himself from the player, wraps the wires around it loosely and slips it into his own jacket pocket. 

As the porter comes out to greet them, Robbie quirks an eyebrow at him, then turns, smoothly pulling his warrant card out of his breast pocket and flipping it open. 

Leaving James open-mouthed, skin too tender for the soft cotton of his shirt. Wondering whether Robbie was just taking the piss, whether he knew _exactly_ what he was doing to James whole time. 

*****

James grabs Robbie’s arm and steers him inside the little shop. 

He’s almost stopped playing the game, after almost tripping himself with the whole ‘fuck rock’ fiasco, but this one is just too good to pass up. 

The long, narrow shop is an odd combination of coffee house and music exchange. The sandwich board outside says they have coffee and pastries. Stacked in bins just inside the door are rows of second-hand record albums, stacks of CDs that look like they’d topple at a heavy breath. A thin ribbon of incense curls up from a brass bowl in the corner, and James breathes in the exotic scent of sandalwood and oranges. There are ratty-looking sofas and mismatched tables and chairs, and music playing over a really good sound system. 

The song is The Beatles’s _Octopus’s Garden._ And James just has to know what Robbie’s one-word description for that one is. 

Robbie scans the room. “So why are we here, then?” 

James points up at the speaker hanging on the wall above the window. 

Robbie rolls his eyes, but stops to listen. And the sweet, fond expression that lights up his face makes James’s breath catch in his throat. Robbie looks at him, like he’s trying to decide something. And after a moment, he says, “Our Lyn.” 

When James tips his head, raises his eyebrows in question, Robbie snaps his head once, nodding like he’s made up his mind. “Get us a coffee, and I’ll show you.” 

James orders coffee while Robbie chooses a table for them near the dusty window that overlooks the street. 

While he’s waiting, Robbie reaches into his back pocket and tugs out his wallet. Searches through several papers tucked behind a flap and pulls something out. 

Even from halfway across the room, James can see that the paper is worn and tattered at the edges, curved as if its molded itself to the shape of the wallet. Obviously it’s been in Robbie’s wallet for a long time. 

Robbie unfolds it carefully. 

Once James has brought their coffee over and settled in beside him, Robbie hands the paper to him. 

It’s a snapshot, faded and dog-eared and turning greeny gold with age. It’s of Robbie with a little girl clutched in his arms. It has to be Lyn, at probably age three or four. She has Robbie’s blue eyes and his laugh. 

James can tell because she and Robbie are laughing together as they twirl, caught by the photographer in a moment of sheer, exuberant joy. Lyn's arms are flung skyward, and she’s got her whole little body thrown back, completely trusting that the strong arms holding her will keep her from falling.

The figures are a bit blurry and the emulsion is cracked and creased, but it’s perfect. As gorgeous to James as any painting by an Old Master. 

“We were dancing to _Octopus’s Garden_ ,” Robbie says. “It was her favourite when she was that age.” He props his elbow on the table and tilts his head sideways to listen to the last of the song. 

And James holds the photo carefully, knowing that he’s just been made privy to something precious. Precious to Robbie, and precious to James in a way that Robbie doesn’t realise. 

Because this is the Robbie that James will never know. Young and solid, with thick, full hair curling down to his collar and smooth, flawless skin. Robbie with a heart that’s whole. Without the burden of years, without the pain of Val’s death lurking behind his eyes. 

James peeks from the photo to the man. Seeing the creases and the wrinkles and the grey hair threading through the brown. But the bright blue eyes are the same. The kindness, the goodness in his face is the same. To James, Robbie’s every bit as beautiful at this moment, face suffused with quiet joy as he remembers dancing in the sunshine with his daughter, as he was all those years ago. 

*****

Kirsty MacColl is singing _There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis._ It’s low, coming from the window of a nearby car.

Before James can even raise an eyebrow, Robbie wrinkles his nose and hits the button to raise the windows, as if he’s trying to block out the sound. Not an easy feat, since the car from which it’s emanating is moving along the street at about the same speed as theirs. “They played that one until I got sick of hearing it,” Robbie says. 

James is only vaguely familiar with it, and he leans closer to the window so he can listen to the lyrics. And says, without thinking, “My mother would have loved it. She liked silly songs like that.” 

And everything stops. Flat. Like the whole world has blanked out around him. It’s been a long time since he thought about his mother. Since he allowed himself to think about her. But he can see her now, as plainly as if she was on the street before him, standing at the kitchen sink, singing along with the radio. 

He closes his eyes and concentrates, remembering her turning and flicking dish water at him from the tip of her fingers, making him squeal and duck under the kitchen table. He’d knocked over a glass and spilled more water on himself than she ever would have. He can’t remember what she was singing, but he can remember the sound of her laughter as she dabbed at his shirt with a dry dish towel. 

His eyes snap open as he feels the car swerve. 

Robbie has turned onto a side street, out of the traffic, and as soon as he can, he pulls the car over and turns it off. He turns slightly in his seat, facing James. “You never talk about her,” he says, tone plainly inviting James to do so now. 

James opens the car door, says, “I need a cigarette,” and jerks his chin in invitation to show that he’s not bolting. Just...getting out. 

Robbie climbs out, too, and comes around the car. 

James plants the sole of his boot on the wheel and leans his arse on the bonnet. The car’s been sitting in the sun all morning, and the metal is hot through his trousers. 

Robbie leans with him, but turned sideways to face him, arm braced on the roof of the car. 

James pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “She left, when I was nine.” He turns his head, pretending it’s so that the smoke he puffs out won’t blow into Robbie’s face, but it’s really because he’s not sure what his face reveals. It’s been a long time since he talked about his mother. “Just packed up and walked away. I never really knew why.” 

Robbie makes a sound. Sympathy for him? Annoyance at his mother? Probably both, as kindhearted as he is. “What about your dad?” he asks after a moment, tentative, careful, as if he’s not sure how far he can delve. 

“He wouldn’t talk about it. After she left, he never mentioned her again. At least, not in my presence.” 

James thinks about it, worrying at the edge of his thumbnail. Trying to decide how much of himself he really wants to reveal. But he remembers the folded, much-loved, dog-eared photo Robbie shared with him. His story’s not as happy as that, but if Robbie wants to know... 

“For years, I thought she must have left because of me.” 

Robbie makes another sound. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around James’s forearm. Squeezes before quickly drawing back. “James, kids always blame themselves. But you’ve seen enough as a copper to know that’s rarely the case.”

James shrugs. “Yeah, I know.” He takes another couple of pulls on the cigarette. He can’t really taste it. 

He squats down and puts the lit end of the cigarette under the edge of his shoe. Grinds it out, then stands, the butt pinched between thumb and forefinger. “But I still don’t know why she did it. I saw her, right before she died, right before I went into seminary. And all she said was she wouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Robbie raises his eyebrows. 

“I assumed she was talking about my father. He died about a year before.” 

Robbie nods. “Well, there you have it, then. It had to be something between them, didn’t it? Something they didn’t want to burden you with. Parents are blind that way, I can tell you from experience. Many’s the time I didn’t tell Lyn or Mark the truth about something to spare them. Now I know they probably could have borne the truth easier than I did.” 

Robbie’s expression is so kind, his face so creased with hope that his words are helping, that James has to smile and nod. It feels like more of a grimace, though. Like his lips are pulled thin. 

Robbie squeezes his arm again. “It’s hard, though, isn’t it? Not knowing. Knowing you’ll never know.”

And it’s like something eases in James. Some hard knot that’s been there so long he’s mostly forgotten it. Built scar tissue around it and just let it become part of who he was. 

His smile is easier this time. More genuine. 

*****

They’re walking along the High after finishing the only interview they had scheduled for the morning, and they’ve agreed lunch is next, but are still arguing good-naturedly about what to eat when James realises that Robbie’s no longer beside him. 

He looks back and Robbie’s standing, still and focused, three or four paces behind. 

James looks around, thinking he’s seen something, but there’s nothing remarkable in sight. A couple of women with pushchairs, window shopping. A handful of students out for a roam, laughing and talking and scuffling, but not rowdy. Workmen unloading supplies from a van. But mostly it’s just people strolling along the same way they are. 

And then he realises that Robbie’s not looking at anything. He’s got his head tilted sideways, listening. 

James backtracks to him and hears the music coming from the shop where Robbie’s standing. 

The song is clear in the bright, still air. It’s an oldie, vaguely familiar, some breezy pop band. But it’s not until James hears the words that he realises why Robbie’s stopped. It’s _Valleri_ , by...he scrunches up his forehead and dredges up the name of the band...The Monkees. 

_‘And I wouldn’t live without her, even if I could.’_

James catches his breath. Something sharp bites right in the centre of his chest. He’s put his hand on Robbie’s chest in the same spot as the pain in his even before he thinks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. Because he’s the one who started this daft song game. Who kept it up. Because he was greedy for the peeks into Robbie’s psyche it gave him. He should have known that, sooner or later, ‘sad’ would be something more than just what a song evoked. 

Robbie brushes his fingers across James’s hand, just a quick touch to show he’s heard. 

James pulls his hand back. The skin across his knuckles is tingling. 

Robbie listens to the last of the song before saying, “Sorry for what?” 

“For the stupid game. If I hadn’t kept poking at you about the music, you probably wouldn’t be so aware of it.” 

Robbie looks at him and smiles. 

And that pressure twinges in his chest again. Swells until it’s difficult to breathe. Because Robbie’s face...oh, god, his lovely, expressive face...is so full of emotion. Sad and tender and alight with memory. 

Robbie shakes his head. “Ah, no, lad. That’s not your fault. I’d hear that one, no matter what.” 

Robbie turns, restarts their slow stroll up the street. “That one was a hit before Val and I met. I always liked it, but Val hated it, until she met me. She said her friends picked on her about it, and the kids on her street would yell the lyrics at her.” 

“But not after she met you?” James asks. Softly so he won’t break the mood. Because Robbie’s always talked about Val, but more about how he was after her death. Not so much like this, about how they were together while she was alive. 

Robbie colours a bit, spots of pink lighting up his cheeks. “Well, it’s different, isn’t it? For your boyfriend to sing it when you’re dancing in the moonlight...” And he smiles at the memory. A smile to rival the sunlit day. 

James can see it in his head. A Robbie even younger than the one in the photo with Lyn, dancing with a pretty, dark-haired young woman. It’s not as much a stretch as he would have thought, if he’d considered it, to reconcile that dancing, singing Robbie with the man he knows. He just wishes he’d known him. He just wishes...

He just wishes he could dance with Robbie. In the moonlight. In Robbie's arms.

And for the first time, James realises the risk that's involved with this silly game. Because the more he knows about Robbie Lewis, the less he’s able to pretend that his heart doesn’t sing every time Robbie’s near him. The more he aches for what he can never have. The more of himself he exposes. 

He’s not even aware that, this time, he’s the one who’s stopped, lost in thought, until Robbie prods him gently in the back. 

Robbie points up the street. “Pizza?” he suggests. 

James nods. It won’t matter what they eat, it will taste like sawdust. 

Because he if didn’t learn his lesson before, he’s learned it now. The ache that’s thick and pulsing in his chest convinces him. 

He has to stop playing the song game. 

*****

But it’s impossible to stop completely. Because sometimes, like with _Octopus’s Garden_ , it’s just irresistible to know what Robbie thinks of a song or a tune. And sometimes Robbie still grins at him over a pint, or while they’re walking, and offers one of his one-word descriptions or tells James some bit of musical trivia. 

So when the music starts, floating up to where they’re walking, crossing over the bridge on the way to the pub, he sees Robbie look around, searching for it’s source. 

A couple of young women are sitting on the bank of the canal, a music player with a small speaker on the blanket between them, books and papers spread around them in a half circle. 

And Robbie looks at him, waiting for him to join in. 

It’s a relatively recent hit, one James knows. A pop song. Vacuous noise to his ears the way punk is to Robbie’s. He knows Robbie’s just going to say, “Love song,”, but he can't resist the playful expectation on Robbie’s face. 

James stops and runs his hands along the top of the bridge rail, feeling the rough texture of the wood grain. “So? Other than ‘pop noise’, I mean.”

Robbie stops beside him and tilts his head sideways. Listens to the lyrics. Starts to say something. 

But then he snaps his mouth shut and turns away. Quickly. A flush crawling up his neck. He shrugs and moves to go around James. 

“What?” James asks, putting out a hand to stop him. 

Robbie allows it, but he doesn’t look up. “Nothing comes to mind. It’s just pop noise,” he says. “Like you said.”

But he’s lying. James can hear it in his voice. See it in the set of Robbie’s shoulders. Feel it in the way Robbie’s body tightens when James puts his hand on his shoulder. 

“Robbie?” 

Robbie tries to walk on.

James listens, but the lyrics seem innocuous enough. Pop noise love song, just like he suspected. And if he’d heard sadness or melancholy or pain in Robbie’s voice, he wouldn’t push. But Robbie _lied._

He takes two long strides and catches Robbie’s arm.

Robbie stops, but he keeps his head down, and he says, quietly, “James, _don’t._ ” 

“Tell me!” He’s not sure how he manages it, but his voice is strict enough, demanding enough, for Robbie to obey him. 

Robbie raises his head. Looks at him. The struggle that’s going on him is written plainly on his face. Love and longing and desire. For just one moment, Robbie’s whole heart is on his beautiful face. 

And James reads Robbie’s expression at the same moment he hears the lyrics. _‘Only friends in my mind. But now I realise... It was always you.’_

Robbie watches him hear. Watches him understand. Robbie shakes his head with the barest of movements. Desire and denial. 

They’re standing on a bridge, on a brilliant spring day, and the air is so clear and bright it’s like fine crystal. And James can’t draw a single drop of it into his chest. All he can do is grip Robbie’s shoulder tighter. Bring his other hand up, in slow motion, and flatten it on Robbie’s chest. Fingers demanding, _‘Tell me’_ , tightening until he’s sure Robbie can feel fingerprints pressing into his skin through his shirt. 

“‘James’. All right?” Robbie says gruffly. “The word for that song is ‘James’. That song’s about you.” And he closes his eyes. Like he fears what he’ll see in James’s face. Can’t bear what will come next. “I never meant to tell you,” he says, his voice a gutted croak. “I didn’t mean you to see.” 

All James can do is lift the hand that’s clutching Robbie’s shoulder and place it on the back of his head. Gently. Draw Robbie in against his shoulder. 

Robbie tenses. Starts to resist, then goes limp, then tense again. Body leaning towards his, muscles taut with yearning. Then he takes a step back. Shakes himself like he’s waking from a dream. 

James grips Robbie’s arms, turns him slowly. Moves them back, away from the rail. 

Robbie moves with him, like they’re dancing. Limp and unresisting except for the stiff, determined downward tilt of his head. 

James shifts him back, until they’ve moved across the width of the bridge, up against the rail on the opposite side, enfolded in the shadow of a huge old tree. 

Out of the sunlight, in the scant privacy of shadow, James feels like he can breathe. But his heart’s beating so fast, punching against his lungs, that it’s still difficult to get enough air in to speak. This can’t be what he thinks it is. What he wants it to be. But it’s time he found out. Time he had to courage to find out. 

He leans just enough to press his lips to Robbie’s forehead. 

Robbie rocks back and finally looks at him. Incredulous. Shocked. Vulnerable. “James, don’t.” But it’s still there in his face, the longing. The need. 

James knows because it matches what he feels. Surely Robbie can see that his expression is the same. And finally, he manages enough breath to whisper, “Why not?” 

“Because you can’t possibly feel—” 

James silences him with a kiss. A soft, careful, but absolutely certain touch of his lips. To make sure Robbie knows that, yes, he _can_ feel the same. He does. 

For a moment, he thinks Robbie’s going to pull away. 

But then Robbie’s hands slip inside his jacket, clutch him on his ribs, fingers hot through his shirt. Robbie leans in. Kisses him back. Hard and hungry and desperate. Like he’s been starved for this. Teeth closing on his lip. Mouth bruising. Then suddenly gentle, tongue ghosting over his. Pressing breathless kisses to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, before devouring him again. 

The kiss is everything James ever dreamed of a first kiss. Warm and tender, rough and urgent. Wet and messy and clumsy. It’s new. So new, the taste of Robbie. So new, Robbie pressed tight up against him, yet so familiar, the warm, solid feel of him. 

James groans and Robbie breathes a soft, sweet sound of pleasure and disbelief into his mouth. 

The lyrics worms their way into James’s consciousness. _‘Woke up sweating from a dream with a different kind of feeling.’_ Even pop noise can sometimes tell the truth. 

He has to break away to laugh, his voice husky with arousal and lifted with elation. 

Robbie, still clinging to him, asks, “What?” 

James loops a long arm around Robbie’s neck and draws him in close. Presses his face into Robbie’s soft hair. Inhales him. The sweet, clean, goodness of him. “I suppose that’s our song now?” 

Robbie’s still looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and hope and elation. “James, it’s not possible that you feel...” His voice dies away at what he sees in James’s face. 

He licks his lips, swallows. He smoothes his hands down the sides of James’s face. Over his shoulders. Chest. Back up to stroke his face. Like he can’t believe James is his to touch. He says with wonder, “Our song.” 

What James really feels like doing is throwing his head back and howling, singing his delight to the sky, but he holds himself to just laughter. “Yeah, and we both just called _our_ song ‘pop noise’.” 

Robbie’s smile is open, filled with happy disbelief, brighter than the finest violin concerto, but impish, too. He presses his palm to James's cheek, strokes his thumb across James’s lips. Says, “One man’s noise, James... One man’s noise.” 

###


End file.
